Echoes From The Terraces

09/06/2026

🍅🫙 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 🫙🍅

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐫

There was a time when late summer meant the kitchen was about to get very, very warm.

The garden had spent months doing its work, and suddenly everything seemed ready at once.

Tomatoes covered the kitchen counter. Bushel baskets of beans waited to be snapped. Cucumbers became pickles. Peaches became preserves. Berries became jam.

And Mason jars appeared everywhere.

For generations of families, canning wasn't a quaint hobby or something done simply for nostalgia.

It was how you prepared for winter.

Nothing from the garden was wasted if it could possibly be saved.

Children might be recruited to snap beans at the kitchen table or peel vegetables. Mothers and grandmothers worked over steaming pots while jars boiled and lids waited nearby.

The kitchen windows were open, but it rarely seemed to help.

It was August or September.

It was hot.

And then somebody turned on the stove and boiled gallons of water.

Anyone who remembers canning season probably remembers that part!

But there was something satisfying about the work.

Empty jars slowly became full ones.

Red tomatoes.

Green beans.

Golden peaches.

Purple jams and jellies.

Pickles floating beside sprigs of dill.

Jar after jar was carefully wiped, sealed, and set aside to cool.

And then came that wonderful little sound.

Pop.

A lid sealed.

Then another.

Pop.

Anyone who has ever canned knows the satisfaction of hearing it from across the kitchen.

By evening, rows of jars stood on towels across the counter like little soldiers.

The next morning they would be checked, labeled, and carried to the pantry or cellar, where shelves gradually filled with the colors of summer.

Months later, when snow covered the ground and the garden was nothing more than a memory beneath the frozen earth, one of those jars would be opened.

And suddenly there were tomatoes from August on a January supper table.

Maybe that is what I love most about those old pantry shelves.

They represented far more than food.

They represented preparation.

Thrift.

Hard work.

Knowledge passed from one generation to another.

And the belief that when the earth gave you an abundance, you took care of it because you knew another season was coming.

Today, many of us can walk into a grocery store in the middle of winter and buy almost anything we want.

But there is still something special about opening a jar that was put up months earlier.

Because somehow, tucked inside with the tomatoes, peaches, pickles, or jam...

there is a little bit of summer waiting for us.

🍅 Did your family can or preserve food? What was always on the pantry shelves when you were growing up?

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 #𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐉𝐚𝐫𝐬 #𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭 #𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 #𝐌𝐭𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐍𝐘 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

09/05/2026

🤝❤️ 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 ❤️🤝

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 — 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐝

There was a time when nobody needed to call it charity.

A neighbor was sick, so someone brought supper.

A family had a new baby, and food appeared on the doorstep.

A farmer was injured at harvest time, and somehow the crops still came in because friends and neighbors showed up to help.

A family lost their home to fire, and before the ashes were cold, people were collecting clothing, furniture, dishes, and whatever else could help them begin again.

Someone needed a ride.

Someone needed their driveway shoveled.

Someone needed a few groceries.

Someone simply needed company.

And people showed up.

Today, on the International Day of Charity, we are reminded of something generations before us seemed to understand instinctively: helping another person doesn't always require a great deal of money.

Sometimes it requires time.

Sometimes it requires work.

Sometimes it requires giving something you have a little more of to someone who suddenly has a little less.

And sometimes it simply requires noticing.

Small towns have always had their disagreements. Neighbors didn't necessarily agree about politics, religion, or how the world ought to be run. Families sometimes feuded, gossip traveled faster than the newspaper, and everyone certainly didn't get along all the time.

But when real trouble came knocking, those differences often became remarkably unimportant.

Churches organized suppers.

Fire departments held benefits.

Civic organizations passed the hat.

Women baked pies and casseroles.

Men arrived with tools.

Children collected coins.

Businesses donated what they could.

And countless acts of kindness happened quietly, without photographs, announcements, or recognition.

Perhaps those are the ones worth remembering most.

Because charity isn't really about being recognized for what we give.

It's about recognizing when someone else needs us.

The world has changed enormously, but that part doesn't have to.

We can still check on an elderly neighbor.

We can still take a meal to someone who is struggling.

We can still volunteer.

We can still support a community fundraiser.

We can still give a little when we have enough.

And we can still teach the next generation that being part of a community means more than simply living in the same place.

It means looking out for one another.

Perhaps the greatest legacy any community can leave isn't found in its buildings, monuments, or photographs.

Perhaps it is found in the stories people tell years later:

"When we needed help, they were there."

❤️ On this International Day of Charity, do you remember a time when your family or community came together to help someone in need? Those stories deserve to be remembered, too.

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐎𝐟𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 #𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐬 #𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 #𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 #𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 #𝐌𝐭𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐍𝐘 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

09/04/2026

🍂☕ 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 ☕🍂

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

You know it the moment you open the door.

The air feels different.

After weeks of warm, heavy summer mornings, there comes a day when you step outside and instinctively pull your sweater a little closer.

The first cool morning has arrived.

It may still be warm by afternoon. Summer isn't finished with us quite yet. But for a few early hours, autumn gives us a little preview of what is coming.

The grass is wet with dew. Mist hangs low over the fields. The sun rises through a haze that somehow looks softer than it did in July.

And the coffee tastes just a little better when there is a chill in the air.

Years ago, that first cool morning often brought subtle changes around the house.

Windows that had been left open all night were suddenly pulled down. Someone might mention that it was almost time to put the screens away and bring the storm windows back out. An extra blanket found its way onto the bed.

Children heading off to school were told to take a sweater or jacket.

"You're going to need that this morning."

And, of course, by afternoon they were carrying it home instead of wearing it.

Outside, the signs were beginning to appear everywhere.

A few leaves had started changing at the tops of the trees.

Goldenrod lined the roadsides.

Gardens were overflowing with the last abundance of summer, while pumpkins quietly grew beneath broad green leaves.

Farm fields were beginning their transformation from the deep greens of July to the golds and browns of harvest.

Even the sounds seemed different.

Summer evenings had been filled with lawn mowers, children playing, and screen doors opening and closing.

Now the crickets seemed louder.

The geese would soon begin gathering overhead.

And somewhere in the distance, you might hear the hum of farm machinery as another harvest approached.

There was work to be done before winter.

Tomatoes to can.

Apples to pick.

Gardens to finish.

Wood to stack.

Porches to prepare.

Yet there was something comforting about it all.

Perhaps because autumn has always carried a feeling of coming home.

Summer asks us to go—to travel, explore, gather, picnic, swim, and stay outside until darkness finally sends us indoors.

Autumn gently calls us back.

Back to the kitchen.

Back to warm meals.

Back to familiar routines.

Back to evenings when the lights inside our homes begin glowing before supper.

And it all begins with something as simple as one cool morning.

A little chill in the air.

A cup of coffee held between two hands.

And the realization that another summer is quietly becoming a memory.

🍂 Do you love that first cool morning—or are you one of those people who would happily hold onto summer for another few months?

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 #𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐧 #𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 #𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 #𝐌𝐭𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐍𝐘 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

09/03/2026

🧔🏻‍♂️🎩 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 🎩🧔🏻‍♂️

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐲 — 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

Today is World Beard Day, and it seems only fitting that we tip our hats—or perhaps stroke our whiskers—to a style that has been appearing in family photographs for generations.

Pull out an old photograph album from the late 1800s and chances are good you will find at least one gentleman sporting a beard that would make today's most dedicated beard enthusiast proud.

And these weren't always neatly trimmed little beards.

There were full beards.

Long beards.

Bushy beards.

Sideburns that seemed determined to meet somewhere beneath the chin.

And mustaches impressive enough to deserve their own photograph.

In the Victorian era, facial hair could be a serious matter of fashion. A beard might suggest maturity, dignity, masculinity, or simply that a gentleman was keeping up with the style of his time.

Look at photographs of men from the Civil War era and the decades that followed and you'll see almost every imaginable variation.

Abraham Lincoln's famous beard.

Ulysses S. Grant's closely cropped whiskers.

Generals with enormous sideburns.

Farmers and tradesmen with beards shaped more by practicality than fashion.

And tucked into family albums across America are countless unidentified great-great-grandfathers staring solemnly into the camera from behind truly magnificent facial hair.

Of course, fashions changed.

By the early decades of the twentieth century, the great Victorian beard began disappearing from many faces. Clean-shaven looks became increasingly fashionable, although the mustache certainly wasn't ready to surrender.

Then, like most fashions, the beard eventually came around again.

And again.

And again.

Which makes you wonder whether fashion ever really invents anything new—or simply waits long enough for us to forget that our great-grandparents already did it.

Perhaps somewhere in an old Mt. Morris photograph is a gentleman who would walk into a modern barbershop today and be considered perfectly fashionable.

He might be a little puzzled by the electric clippers.

But the beard?

He had that figured out 150 years ago.

So today, on World Beard Day, here's to the bearded gentlemen of the past and present.

And maybe it's time to pull out those old family photographs and take another look.

Because behind one of those impressive sets of whiskers might be a story waiting to be rediscovered.

🧔 Does your family have an old photograph featuring a particularly impressive beard or mustache? Share it with us in the comments—we may just discover Mt. Morris's greatest beard!

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐃𝐚𝐲 #𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐌𝐭𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐍𝐘 #𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐄𝐫𝐚 #𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐏𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐬 #𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 #𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬

09/02/2026

🚌🍂 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 🍂🚌

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐁𝐮𝐬 𝐈𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠

Long before we could see it, we could hear it.

The low rumble of a diesel engine somewhere down the road. The occasional squeal of brakes. The sound growing closer with every stop.

The school bus was coming.

For generations of children growing up in small towns and along country roads, that big yellow bus was as much a part of the school year as pencils, chalkboards, homework, and report cards.

On chilly September mornings, children gathered at the ends of driveways or stood together at neighborhood bus stops. Some carried lunch boxes. Others had brown paper bags tucked under their arms. Backpacks hadn't always become the enormous traveling supply closets they seem to be today.

And, inevitably, there was somebody who wasn't ready.

"The bus is coming!"

Those four words could send an entire household into motion.

A piece of toast was abandoned on the kitchen table. A shoe was pulled on while hopping toward the door. A forgotten homework paper was grabbed from the counter.

And out the door you went.

Sometimes you ran.

Because there were few things more embarrassing than making an entire school bus wait while you raced down the driveway.

Then the folding door swung open.

Up the steps you climbed, greeted by a bus driver who often knew not only your name, but your brothers and sisters, your parents, and sometimes even your grandparents.

Then came one of the most important decisions of the morning.

Where were you going to sit?

The younger children were usually toward the front. The older kids claimed the back seats as though some unwritten law had granted them permanent ownership.

Friends squeezed together. Conversations picked up where they had left off the afternoon before. Books were passed around. Notes were whispered. Someone was always laughing too loudly.

And as the bus traveled from road to road, another child climbed aboard until nearly every seat was filled.

The ride itself became part of growing up.

We watched the seasons change through those bus windows.

In September, green fields and early hints of autumn.

By October, brilliant leaves.

In winter, snowbanks towered beside the roads while we secretly hoped the weather would become bad enough that school might be canceled.

Then spring arrived, windows cracked open, and everyone began counting the days until summer vacation.

Year after year, the same roads.

The same stops.

The same yellow bus.

Until one day, without realizing its significance, we climbed down those steps for the very last time.

No announcement.

No ceremony.

We simply went home.

And life moved on.

Years later, the sight of a school bus stopping along a country road can bring it all rushing back—the friendships, the laughter, the early mornings, the snow days we prayed for, and the childhood years we once thought would last forever.

Funny how something we couldn't wait to outgrow can become something we remember so fondly.

🚌 Who remembers riding the school bus? Do you remember your bus driver's name—or where your favorite seat was?

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐓𝐨𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 #𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 #𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 #𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚

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09/01/2026

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🎒🍎 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 🍎🎒

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥

There was always something different about the morning of the first day of school.

For weeks, summer had seemed endless. There were bicycles to ride, friends to find, swimming to do, and long evenings when nobody seemed particularly concerned about the clock.

And then suddenly, there it was.

The first day of school.

The night before, new clothes were carefully laid out. New shoes waited beside the bed—sometimes still a little stiff and uncomfortable. Backpacks were packed and repacked, filled with freshly sharpened pencils, notebooks without a single mark on their pages, folders without bent corners, and perhaps a brand-new box of crayons with every tip still perfectly pointed.

There was something wonderful about opening that box for the first time.

Everything was new.

Everything was possible.

Morning came earlier than we wanted it to.

Breakfast was eaten while someone reminded us to hurry. Hair was combed, collars straightened, and lunches tucked into lunch boxes or brown paper bags. Somewhere in the middle of all that commotion came the inevitable words:

"Stand there so I can get a picture."

Long before cell phones and social media, parents were taking first-day-of-school pictures. We stood on front porches, beside family cars, at the end of driveways, or near the front steps wearing clothes that someday would make our own children laugh.

Then came the waiting.

You could often hear the school bus before you could see it.

That familiar rumble coming down the road meant summer vacation was officially over.

There were butterflies in your stomach as the big yellow bus came into view. Who would you sit beside? Would your friends be there? What would your teacher be like? Would this be a good year?

For some children, it was their very first time climbing those steps.

For others, it was a familiar routine.

And somewhere nearby stood a mother or father waving goodbye—perhaps feeling emotions their child wouldn't understand until many years later.

The funny thing is, when we were young, we measured our lives by school years.

First grade.

Fifth grade.

Freshman year.

Senior year.

At the time, each one seemed to last forever.

Only later do we realize how quickly they passed.

Today, another generation is preparing for those same first mornings. The backpacks look different. The school supplies have changed. Technology has found its way into classrooms in ways we never could have imagined.

But some things haven't changed at all.

There are still nervous children.

Proud parents.

New shoes.

First-day pictures.

Old friends reunited after summer.

And teachers standing at classroom doors ready to welcome another group of children who will someday look back and wonder...

How did those years go by so fast?

Perhaps that's the real lesson of the first day of school.

We spend childhood waiting to grow up.

And then we spend much of adulthood remembering what it felt like to be a child.

🍎 Do you remember your first days of school? What school did you attend—and what is one thing you remember most?

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐎𝐟𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 #𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐓𝐨𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 #𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐌𝐭𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐍𝐘 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 #𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚

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08/31/2026

🌊 𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 — 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 #𝟐𝟏
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬
𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨

Not far from The Terraces flows a river that has witnessed more history than any building ever could.

The Genesee River comes north through the hills of western New York, emerges from its dramatic gorge near Mt. Morris, spreads into the broad and fertile Genesee Valley, continues through Rochester, and eventually empties into the waters generations have known as Lake Ontario.

We know the river.

It is part of our landscape. We cross it without giving it much thought. We see it from overlooks, drive beside its valley, watch it rise after heavy rains and retreat again. It has watered fields, powered mills, carried floods, carved rock, shaped communities and witnessed generations come and go.

But the Genesee was here before Mt. Morris had that name.

Before Livingston County existed.

Before New York was a state.

Before there was a United States.

And if we follow the river far enough backward—not geographically, but historically—we find another story altogether.

🪶 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐭. 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬

Long before European-American settlement, the Genesee Valley was ancestral homeland of the Seneca, the Onödowá’ga:’, the westernmost nation of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy. Seneca communities lived near the river, cultivating corn, beans and squash, hunting, fishing and building lives intimately connected to this landscape.

Even Mt. Morris carried names before it became Mt. Morris.

Livingston County records Sho-no-jo-waah-geh, translated as “big kettle,” as an early Seneca name associated with the town. Another name associated with this place was Da-ya-it-ga-o—interpreted as “where the river comes out of the hills” or “where the valley widens.”

Stand above Mt. Morris and look westward across the valley and that description suddenly becomes remarkably vivid.

Here, the Genesee emerges from the narrow gorge and enters the broad valley flats. Even the National Park Service's description of Mt. Morris notes precisely this geography: the village sits on the high banks at the place where the river leaves the steep shale gorge and enters the flat Genesee Valley.

Long before someone placed Mt. Morris on a map, people had named this place by what the land itself was doing.

Where the river comes out of the hills.

There is something beautiful about that.

🪶 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

This history isn't abstract or somewhere far away.

It is beneath our feet.

Seneca leader William Tallchief, Ou-nea-shat-ai-kau, lived at what we now call Murray Hill in Mt. Morris and also at the Squawkie Hill Reservation across the Genesee River. The reservation was among those retained by the Seneca following the 1797 Treaty of Big Tree. After Seneca reservation land in the Genesee Valley was sold, Tallchief moved to the Tonawanda Reservation. His remains were later returned to Mt. Morris, where he is buried.

There was Sally's Bend, named for a Seneca woman named Sally who lived along a bend in the Genesee in the late eighteenth century.

There was Squawkie Hill.

There were Seneca settlements, fields, trails and families.

And then came war, treaties, land speculation and displacement.

During the Revolutionary War, much of the Seneca Nation sided with the British, influenced by complicated alliances, trade relationships and promises concerning their sovereignty. In 1779, George Washington ordered what became known as the Sullivan-Clinton Campaign. Its objective included the destruction of Seneca and Cayuga villages and their food supplies. American troops burned settlements, crops and extensive orchards throughout Haudenosaunee territory.

After the Revolution came increasing pressure for the land itself.

The Treaty of Canandaigua in 1794 recognized Six Nations sovereignty and reaffirmed Indigenous land rights in western New York. Only three years later, the Treaty of Big Tree, negotiated in present-day Geneseo, extinguished Seneca title to most of their remaining lands from the Genesee River west toward Niagara, with several reservations initially retained—including Squawkie Hill here in Livingston County.

Within only a few generations, a landscape that had been Seneca homeland for centuries was transformed.

But the older story never entirely disappeared.

It remains in the land.

And it remains in the names.

🌊 𝐀 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲

Follow the Genesee northward and eventually its waters reach the smallest and easternmost of the five Great Lakes.

Lake Ontario.

Today, hearing the word Ontario probably makes most of us think immediately of Canada.

But the lake wasn't named after the Canadian province.

Quite the opposite.

The Indigenous-derived name came first.

The Canadian government traces Ontario to an Iroquoian word associated with “sparkling water.” Other linguistic interpretations differ somewhat in the exact translation, but the important point is not in dispute: the name has Indigenous roots and was being used centuries before Ontario became a Canadian province in 1867. Canadian historical records note its use by the seventeenth century.

Think about that for a moment.

Before there was a Canada...

Before there was a United States...

Before anyone drew an international boundary through the Great Lakes...

Ontario was already carrying an echo of the people who knew these waters first.

🗺️ 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝

And that brings this old story unexpectedly into the present.

On August 27, 2026, President Donald Trump signed an executive order directing the federal government to rename Lake Ontario “Lake America.” The order directs the Secretary of the Interior and U.S. Board on Geographic Names to make the change in federal records and requires federal agencies to use the new name.

The decision has already created controversy, and even maps do not presently agree: Google has begun displaying “Lake America” to U.S. users, while other services continue to display Lake Ontario.

It would be very easy for the story to become about Donald Trump.

But I don't think it is.

At least, that isn't the story I want to tell here.

The more interesting question is much older:

What is contained within a name?

And what can be lost when we replace one without understanding where it came from?

Whatever one's politics, Ontario is not merely the name of a Canadian province sitting across the water from New York.

It carries Indigenous linguistic roots.

It connects the present landscape to people who knew these waters before either nation existed.

And here in Mt. Morris, that history feels particularly close.

We live beside another body of water whose story stretches backward through Seneca history—the Genesee.

The same river that flows beneath our bridges today flowed past William Tallchief.

It flowed past Seneca communities.

It flowed when this place was known by names most of us no longer know.

It flowed before Robert Morris's name was attached to our town.

It flowed before Livingston County appeared on a map.

And it flowed before anyone imagined an international border dividing the waters to the north.

🌊 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬

Perhaps that is why I keep coming back to the river.

Human beings have always had a need to name things.

We name rivers.

We name mountains.

We name towns.

We name lakes.

Sometimes those names survive for centuries.

Sometimes they disappear.

Sometimes one people replaces the name given by another.

And occasionally, if we look closely enough at an old map or listen carefully enough to an old story, a forgotten name speaks again.

Governments change.

Borders change.

Maps are redrawn.

Presidents come and go.

But from here in Mt. Morris, the Genesee continues its ancient journey northward.

Past fields and towns.

Through Rochester.

And finally into the great lake whose waters have been known for centuries by a name rooted in the languages of the Indigenous people of this region.

Ontario.

Maybe maps tell us what a place is called today.

But history tells us what came before.

And sometimes, if we are willing to listen—

the water remembers.

🌊🪶

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 #𝐋𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐎𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨 #𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 #𝐇𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐞 #𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 #𝐌𝐭𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐍𝐘 #𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐲 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 #𝐍𝐞𝐰𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 #𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

08/31/2026

🌻 The Last Morning of August

🌻🍂 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 🍂🌻

There is something about the last morning of August that feels different.

Summer isn't over. Not really. There are still warm afternoons ahead, gardens still producing, lawns still needing to be mowed, and perhaps a few more evenings when we'll sit outside long after supper.

But something has changed.

The mornings arrive a little cooler now. Darkness comes a little earlier. The fields have begun taking on that late-summer gold, and every once in a while, you notice a leaf that has changed before all the others—as though autumn has quietly sent someone ahead to announce its arrival.

For generations, the end of August has carried that same sense of transition.

Children knew their carefree summer days were numbered. Mothers began thinking about school clothes, lunch boxes, and everything that needed to be ready for that first morning back. Farmers looked toward harvest. Gardens were overflowing, kitchens were busy with canning, and pantries slowly filled with jars that would bring a little taste of summer to the cold months ahead.

There might still be one last picnic, one last swim, one more family gathering, or one more evening spent catching fireflies before someone called from the porch that it was time to come inside.

Maybe that is why these final days of summer can feel a little bittersweet.

We spend June looking forward to summer.

July believing it will last forever.

And then August quietly reminds us that seasons never stay.

Tomorrow the calendar turns to September.

Soon there will be school buses on the roads, football games under Friday-night lights, apples at roadside stands, pumpkins appearing on porches, and that unmistakable smell of autumn in the air.

But today belongs to August.

So perhaps we should linger here just a little longer.

Have another cup of coffee on the porch.

Listen to the birds.

Notice the flowers.

Watch the sunlight stretch across the yard.

And appreciate one more summer morning before the season begins to slip quietly into memory.

Sometimes the ordinary days are the ones we miss the most.

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐎𝐟𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 #𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 #𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 #𝐌𝐭𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐍𝐘 #𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚

07/19/2026

🍦☀️ Ice Cream on a July Evening

🍦☀️ 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 ☀️🍦

There are few things that say "summer" quite like an ice cream cone on a warm July evening.

Whether it came from the local ice cream stand, a neighborhood social, or a carton waiting in the freezer at home, it always seemed to taste just a little better after a long summer day.

Children carefully balanced towering scoops before they melted down their hands.

Parents laughed as napkins disappeared almost as quickly as the ice cream itself.

Conversations lingered a little longer.

The sun settled a little lower.

And for a little while, life seemed wonderfully uncomplicated.

Years later, we may forget exactly what flavor we ordered.

But we'll always remember who shared the moment with us.

Sometimes the sweetest memories aren't found in extraordinary events.

They're found in ordinary summer evenings.

✒️ 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

#𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 #𝐈𝐜𝐞𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 #𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 #𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚

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